


The blue silk handkerchief

by FreyaLor



Category: French History RPF, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: 17th century French politics, Dom/sub, M/M, Power Play, Religious Guilt, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-24 09:49:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17098316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreyaLor/pseuds/FreyaLor
Summary: Another Tumblr prompt gone wild.The prompt is simple: an Armand/Louis/Treville threesome.The only slightly believable way I have found to justify it : not as simple.Prepare for politics, trauma, angst, feelings, but above all lots, LOTS AND LOTS OF SMUT.This is FILTHY, even to my standards. You have been warned.Reminder : I work with Historical! Richelieu, Historical!Louis XIII and BBC! Treville.The blend feels weird on the tongue but has a sweet aftertaste.





	1. The Lion and the War Hound

 

 

 

 

 

-« Cardinal those men have done nothing wrong.”

 

 

 

Richelieu looks up from his documents, blinking between outrage and disbelief.

For a man who has been fighting, scheming and arguing for years until the Royal Council was finally cleared from anyone who could antagonize him, accepting bold, honest _Treville_ into the room during Council has already been a bloody struggle, but the Captain actually speaking up, even after all advisors have left, looks like a slap in his very face.

 

The Captain is being highly irregular again, I admit, but this was to be expected. The Cardinal has just spent two hours listing all the army Officers his dear machinery of State have made _expendable_ , since a whole array of feudal privileges and functions is bound to be erased from existence, replaced by an orderly, docile pyramid of agents for the State, all of them devoted to the slightest twitch of his hand.

 

I know it's all for the best, I know Armand is only building such power to gently hand it over to me in the end, but Treville isn’t aware of our plans for future France. He only knows half of these men are his friends, his comrades, his brothers in arms, and though he's only here as close protection for myself after Condé's senseless threats on my life last month, he's not a man to stand idle while his fellows are mistreated.

 

I see my Beast darting a quick, timid glance my way, to check if I intend to put Treville back in his place no doubt, but I only slouch back in my armchair, visibly taking my time, pouring myself a generous glass of wine.

I won't say a word for two reasons.

  
One, this Council has been excruciatingly long and, since all that is spoken there is always decided the day before between Armand and me anyways, _exceedingly boring_. I consider one more bickering scene between those two a well-deserved entertainment.

Two, though I cannot deny I am bound to Armand by something higher than my own soul, I like Treville. The Captain has never failed me once, may it be in Court or on every battlefield of our lives, and listening to his advice has rarely proven to be a waste of time.

 

So I take a sip of my personal cuvée, give my Beast a peaceful smile, and stare straight into his eyes in perfect silence.

He lowers his head a little, pursing his lips tight, and gathers his papers in decently faked nonchalance.  


_He's on his own and he knows it._

 

-“I never said they had.” He muses, beautifully upset, and Treville, emboldened by my silence, steps away from his post at the door towards the Council table.

 

-“You are canceling their titles, their prestige, their purpose!” He growls, his face aflame with indignation.

 

-”Yes I am.” Armand quietly states, not looking up from his task, and the Captain narrows his eyes, his fist clenched upon the hilt of his sword.

 

_Heh._

I knew it would be amusing.

  
Their fights often sound the same. The hero thunders, the snake hisses, and none of them ever wins, trapped as they are by the admiration they can't help feeling for each other. Treville, to his great frustration, senses very well how high Richelieu is pushing the whole country and dear Armand, burdened by self-loathing, feels humbled by the brave soldier's virtues.

 

Unable to admit their mutual respect, they've been at each other's throats for years now, my Beast superb in his haughty stances and poisonous words, the Captain beaming bright with the certainty of truth.

 

They're both absolutely gorgeous.

 

 

-“None of them deserves such punishment!” The Captain spits as if rushing at an enemy's sword.

 

-“This is no punishment.” My shadow in red replies. “It is merely the implementation of a rational stately system replacing feudal traditions that have no place anymore in the advanced Kingdom France has become.”

 

 

Treville literally snarls and strides three steps forward, his regulation blue cloak billowing around his shoulders as he closes the distance between them.

 

 

-” And how do you think they will _take_ it?” He hisses, his face inches from Armand's cheek.

 

With that, my Beast smoothly straightens his back, his documents and letters gathered in a neat pile between his hands, and deigns to turn his head towards the Captain.

 

-”They will take it as it is.” He says, definite, imperious, and I can't help a brief smirk, because he almost sounds like me sometimes. “Financial compensations have been calculated. As for the rest, their duties require complete obedience to their King’s will.”

 

 

This time, it's Treville's turn to steal a glance at me.

 

 _'Is it true?'_ his eyes ask, and I still don't speak. I don't need to.

I just nod, once, and he averts his eyes in thwarting.

 

 

I do hear the Captain's reasons, though. I might even understand them, but a new era is dawning upon the whole continent, and France needs to grow out of the Dark Ages fast, no matter how many righteous prides are bruised along the way.

_Dreams come at a price, Treville, you surely know about that too._

 

I feel him battling with what he must see as injustice for a while, revolted as any good soldier should be by the necessary sacrifices of change, opening and closing his mouth upon arguments he cannot find.

 

 

-”Most of those men are heroes of war.” He eventually mutters, for no one in particular it seems. “I don't understand.”

And despite his turmoil he's about to step back to the door and say nothing more, I'm sure he is, but Armand, my dear unforgiving _lunatic_ , can't resist one last strike :

 

-”You’re a Musketeer, Treville, and this is state business. You don’t understand because you’re not _meant_ to.”

 

 

I flinch over the rim of my glass, _oh, for God's sake, this was uncalled for,_ but before I can quietly pull on my Beast's leash, the Captain mouths a filthy insult, and his forceful hand grips Armand's arm in a vicious twist, forcing him to face the threat in the Musketeer's eyes.

My first instinct is to bang my cup on the table and get up, _how dare you lay your hand on him, soldier,_ but something hits me like a punch in the guts, and I stop dead in my move.

 

Treville is panting.

 

 

Not with the short, violent breaths righteous fury would cause, not at all, but with low, languid gasps, strangled by shame, by _need,_ and I know those by heart, because I heard them for years.

Forced out of my own throat by the maddening touch of the Red Beast’s skin.

 

I sink back into my chair, dumbfounded, hiding my shock into a long, uneasy gulp of wine.

 

 

Armand’s delicate hand twitches in pain, letting go of a few papers in his efforts to break free, but Treville, mesmerized, doesn't let go for a second.

The Musketeer must feel, as I once did, the enticing warmth radiating from this lithe, feverish body. He must see, as I once saw, the Beast’s wide amber eyes turn glassy and imploring, his supple frame arching under the pressure in captivating curves.

So if Treville’s cheeks start to turn pink, his tongue passing nervously on his famished lips, I’d be a fool not to notice, and I’d be a bloody liar to pretend I don’t know why.

 

The Captain is enraged, no doubt, but he’s also _aflame with desire,_ and I need to decide what to do with this brand new Pandora box of information.

 

 

Treville never struck me as _one of my kind_ , but truth be told, the Louvre is a murderous place where all men must guard their secrets or die in disgrace. This particular mortal sin is not something to be flaunted by anyone on Earth for sure but the higher the rank, the higher the risks.

 

I’d burn half of my country to silence myself before I let anyone know, and I suppose the Captain shares my line of thought.

 

 

 

But now I think about it, it explains a lot. _It explains so much._  
It explains why the Musketeer, though he claims to despise Richelieu most of the time, never can seem to ignore him. Treville has to come back at Armand, again and again, hands in tight fists, jaw tense, teeth clenched, _of course_.

It explains why the Captain, though every word Armand says seems to drive him furious, still keeps searching for his presence, watching his steps, minding his voice.

 

The unfortunate soldier is ensnared, just as I am, by the subtle charms of the red snake, and truly, how could I throw the first stone? For five years by now, every grandeur, every pleasure of my life has been carved in Armand's unconditional love, and though he is detested by a whole continent, I am willing to wage a thousand wars for every inch of his soft skin.

 

I know I should intervene, pull them apart and dismiss the soldier in a few barks, his conduct, after all, is intolerable. But I realize, as I sit there fascinated, that Treville's scorching want is too close to my own not to echo in my guts, and I'm too familiar with my own longings by now to keep denying the strange, delicious warmth it sparks in me.

 

 

I should stand up, yell, and _reprimand_ , I know, but truth is I think I have a much, _much better idea._

 

 

-“Cardinal.” I call, pulling Treville out of his trance.

 

The Musketeer glances down at his own hand, pales in a heartbeat and lets go of Armand's arm as if it was on fire. Then, Richelieu, unquestionable expert at maintaining facades, turns to me in perfect serenity, his documents gathered again in meticulous order.

 

-“Your Majesty?” He asks, a slight tremble of his voice as only clue of his trouble.

 

I have a commanding nod for the papers in his hands.

 

-“I’d like the first revocation letters to be ready this afternoon.” I gently order.

 

Though I sense a flash of disappointment as I don’t shout at Treville for his unruly behavior, his instincts of duty are stronger, and his eyes immediately turn distant with calculation, adjusting schedule, estimating time.

 

-“They can be in your hands before dinner.” He eventually drops, bowing slightly.

 

 _Oh, I bet they will be._ I give him the kind of thankful smile that always reassures him, and slowly wave towards the door.

 

-“You can proceed, then, Minister.”

 

Armand is indeed rather peaceful as he bows a bit lower and walks out, leaving a glare of dark omens for Treville as he passes him by.

_Good._

 

 

The moment my Beast has left, the Captain, flushed with self-consciousness, mutters about the Royal Guard being ready to take the next shift on my protection, but _tough luck, soldier_ _._

 

I have a plan.

 

 

-“Come here, Treville.” I simply order, pouring myself more wine.

 

The Musketeer falters on his feet in raw dread at first, so harshly it’s painful to see, before he forces his face blank and steps forward like he could march to war. Steadily, fearlessly.

 

I bite on a proud grin. _My admirable soldier of France._

 

 

He comes to stand at attention at a reasonable distance from my armchair, and I look up in his worried eyes. I keep my voice low, because if I trust Armand to make sure no spyhole subsists in the Council Room, the Louvre is a murderous place, and we can never be sure about eavesdropping.

 

-“What is your opinion about the Cardinal, Captain?” I muse, and I literally see the soldier’s breath hitch, his whole body tensing.

 

This is all immensely _entertaining._

 

While he struggles with his words, I patiently turn my head to the high windows to gaze at the plane trees of the gardens, stripped of their leaves by another cruel winter. Frost has crawled deep into the Earth this year, and the advisors say the crops won’t be as plentiful as before.

 

Paris seems to be sleeping, even though we’re already late into the morning, shivering and pale under a thick layer of ice, refusing to move until the rise of a more generous sun. Even Versailles down South is in slumber, game becoming scarce in its usually lively forests, and hunting parties feel more and more like siege wars.

 

Christmas has been dead and gone for a month and a half now, and until spring comes to save us all, there are sixty bland, tasteless days ahead of me. I strongly intend, then, to seize any opportunity for _distraction_.

 

-“He is… a very efficient Minister.” I hear Treville state after a while.

 

I let out a dark snicker, dismissing his words with a disdainful snap.

 

-“Now, that’s not very original, Treville.” I scold, raising my glass in front of my eyes to inspect the color of the wine. “Even the Spanish think that.”

I add then, turning to stare at him straight into the eyes again:

 

-“Tell me what you think of him _as a man_.”

 

The soldier, audacious as he is, still takes a bloody step backwards, his eyes blurred by a second of pure panic.

He coughs, battling to keep his poise steady, and looks around as if to search for a way out of this trap, but my eyes on him remain merciless, because though the distress I'm inflicting him might be a high price to pay indeed for his brief insolence, I must admit the sight of this handsome, athletic man blushing and fidgeting under my stare is a bloody _feast_.

 

-“His Eminence’s dedication and his sense of duty are not to be questioned.” He mutters tentatively.

 

_Oh, bloody Hell._

I growl in irritation, getting up in a harsh move.

I stride towards him, but as expected, despite his torment the courageous soul stands his ground, his eyes locked into mine, _oh, my proud soldier of France_.

I come to stand unbearably close, inches from his skin, breaking every law of protocol including those I dictated myself, and tilt my head aside, so my breath comes brushing the short hair on his greying temple as I hiss, menacing:

 

-“Don’t give me that Courtier crap, Treville, you’re worthless at this game. Leave that to those lowlifes my palace is swarming with _._ I asked you a question, _soldier_.”

 

The last word makes him shudder in alarm, and I see his will to honor his rank crush his fears in pieces as he lifts his chin up a little.

 

-“He looks like there’s several parts of him” he spits, defiant, “some of them virtuous, the others _disgusting_.”

 

He notices me frowning, and raises both hands to his defense.

 

-“Please understand,” he says, “I know, I _feel_ he lives and breathes for our Country, for Your Majesty, I know his purpose, his aim is exactly the same as mine, and in this I may feel closer to him than I should sometimes. But those filthy things he does without a flinch, without the slightest remorse, those reputations he destroys, those innocents he exiles, those people he - …”

 

He recoils from what’s inevitably coming next, watching my face with caution.

 

-“…executes?” I fill in, my voice obviously softer than expected.

 

-“Yes.” He admits. “It repulses me. Some days he looks more like a monster than a man.”

 

I nod in appreciation at his bravery. He spat his guts out, just as I asked, standing firmly on his feet, and I wish I had a thousand men like him in my armies.

 

But there's only one Jean du Peyrer, Count of Treville, and there always will be.

 

 

He’s been good, he’s been obedient, and I could release him from the torture having me so close, my scrutiny relentless upon his face, but I find him far too enjoyable to look at.

 

He really has beautiful eyes, and the scarred, rugged skin old hounds of war have. I like his hands, as rough and sturdy as Armand’s are soft and graceful. I see from where I am the veins in his neck pulsating to the rhythm of his worry, and I'm too familiar with my own longings by now to keep denying the thrill it ignites in me.

 

Having remarkable men under my power drives me insane with pleasure.

 

So instead of walking away I gently lean down towards him, inching closer to his face, and what I have to say, I only need to breathe it against his ear, devouring the weakness in his eyes as he starts to realize he likes it much more than he should.

 

-“If after fifteen years of reign I am still perceived as an honorable man, worthy of France’s throne, it’s because the Cardinal made sure only the pleasant part of the necessary changes brought to the Country were attributed to my will. He took all the rest upon himself, the wars, the taxes, the exiles, the jail or death sentences. He took full responsibility for the filthiest part of what needed to be done, but don’t be fooled, Treville, this, _all of this has always been my plan_. On every shameful deed the Cardinal performs there is always my signature. He makes them happen because I ordered him to. ”

 

Treville's stare widens in stupor, his breath coming in ragged huffs

I give him time to swallow the fact that the world is not as simple as his blunt, virtuous mind would wish it to be, the sinful snake being a little more of an angel, and his rightful King being a little more of a tyrant.

 

To ease his mind, I lay a hand on his forearm, not differently than any other Officer would, though perhaps a bit softer, but to my surprise it seems to add to his trouble more than anything else. His blush deepens, and I feel his whole frame shaking with tension under my palm.

 

As after a while he still doesn't seem to find his words, I push further, testing the strings of his willpower, murmuring with a voice I only use between bedsheets :

 

-”Do you find my First Minister attractive, Captain Treville?”

 

I've seen this soldier ride alone facing a hundred Spanish cavaliers and battle a dozen men with an empty gun and a broken sword, but right now I swear he just _whimpered._ I stare, astonished, as he looks at me with despair in his eyes, and it strikes me then, what his torment is mostly made of.

Beyond the subject of his affection, the very nature of his secret inclinations being unveiled by _me_ , above all others, must feel like the Earth crumbling under his feet. He managed to hide everything about them quite admirably, after all, for until today, I never had a single doubt.

 

My admirable soldier surely thinks the Louvre has closed its jaws upon his ankle, and he's about to die in the worst of all disgraces.

 

-”Your Majesty, _please_.” He begs almost without a sound, and though the words themselves send a shiver of pure ecstasy straight to my groin, I cannot let him think my purpose is his downfall.

 

I am his King, not his enemy.

 

So I offer him a very pleased smile, let my thumb stroke a few reassuring circles upon his arm, and to make him understand how well-intentioned I am, I drop my own defenses before him, giving him the highest gift of trust I could ever find in me.

 

-”I think him _very attractive_ myself, you know.” I breathe “Have been thinking so for many years.”

 

 

He suddenly goes perfectly still, and I don't think his eyes could get wider. He stares at nothing much for a few stunned seconds, paling so fast I begin to wonder if he's alright, then slowly looks into my eyes again. I watch a storm of emotions whirling there for a while, shock, awe, compassion, jealousy and wonder, all battling with such dreadful force I worry his knees might give up on him.

 

I summon more patience, letting him adjust to the collapse of his certitudes, to the truth about the man I am, and when I sense he has regained a bit of control upon his breath, I visibly let my eyes roam up and down his solid frame, sipping wine in soundless delight, making it clear I like what I see.

To my delight, his blush comes back to his cheeks, and if he's still mostly overwhelmed for sure, he starts to understand we're on the same side, and I haven't come to punish.

 

I am here, on the contrary, _to reward._

 

I let my hand slide up the Captain's arm until it grazes his neck, subtly, leisurely, watching in bliss Treville's untamed energy turn against his will from fear to lust in mere seconds.

Dazed, washed-out, but definitely aroused by now, he seems to be timidly searching for the lines of my body through my clothes for the first time in his life. I don't fear his appraisal, I welcome it, letting him appreciate the thick silhouette our fifteen years of war have given to us both.

Looking at me that way doesn't seem to be something he ever thought of, but by the light in his eyes as he stares back at my face, I suppose I am no disappointment.

The Captain seems to have a rather wide range of tastes in men.

_Interesting._

 

 

I calmly lay my glass of wine aside, then, and gently turn my light strokes on the back of his neck into a firm grip, gauging his reaction as I pull him roughly towards me.

 

The dogs of war remain wary until they die, and he's not as eager, as trustful as Armand can be, but he lets himself be pressed against me with a small grunt of pleasure, laying a careful hand on my chest to steady himself. I smile, more like a shark than a lover, I fear, but he still shudders into my grasp when I force his head on my shoulder and purr into his ear :

 

-”If you like the sound of Armand's voice in Council, Captain, you should hear him in bed, moaning in bliss under your weight.”

 

Another grunt, higher pitched, needier. My grin widens.

I harden my grip around the nape of his neck, maintaining him unmoving as I lay a satisfied kiss on his jawline.

 

-”You should taste his skin, smoother, milkier than a woman's, yet stretched around the strongest bones. He whimpers if you lick, he cries out if you bite.”

 

Treville has a full-body jerk, his hand against me showing resistance on principle while his throaty sighs against my shoulder betray his sheer rapture.

 

-”You should see his eyes feverish,” I add, licking a furtive circle below his ear, “his hands fearless, his lips abused by rough kissing and hours spent pleasuring you.”

 

He buries a moan against my doublet, grabbing fistfuls of my shirt, and I have to force my own voice quieter, because the control my mere words are having on him is bloody bewitching.

 

-”You should feel his hips under your hands, inhumanely supple, eager to take anything you're willing to give, a tease, a bite, or a _plunder_.”

 

-” _Your Majesty, for God's sake!_ ” He groans, trembling in exertion, but my grip doesn't falter.

 

I think Treville might be strong enough to wrestle away from me if he wanted to. But he's a Musketeer, the best of all my warriors, and it is doubtless obedience, nothing else, that keeps him exactly where I want him.

I lay a longer, rewarding kiss on his neck, and rasp my last words upon the wet spot I left there.

 

-”You should smell the scent of his silver hair, undone and tousled, glued on his cheeks by bliss and effort as you thrust deep into the tight slickness of him, his insides softer than the silk he always wears.”

 

With that, I slide a leg between his, let my thigh brush his crotch, and he moans deliciously loud, his knees bucking violently, only keeping himself upright by the grip he has on my shirt.

 

While he struggles to breathe against my shoulder I laugh in wicked joy.

 

 

_Good, dutiful soldier of France._

 

 

 

I give him a few minutes to rebuild his composure, my grip around his neck turning back to encouraging strokes along his back.

 

When he's steady enough I pull apart and inspect his face. His eyes are gorgeous like this, blurred by want, looking up at me in both admiration and incredulity. I softly adjust his collar, and brush the folds of his coat. Something beautiful breaks in his stare, then, and he averts his eyes, his whole body crushed by what bloody looks like shame.

_No. I shall have none of this._

 

I have been caged into the same shell of guilt for ten long years before I broke myself free, and that merciless prison inside my own soul has made me hurt Armand a lot before I learned to accept what is nothing else but my fate.

I wish no great man of France would ever feel diminished by his pleasures.  
We never had a choice, we never had a chance, so while we live, let us take what we can.

For shame and for remorse, we will have an eternity in Hell.

 

 

I lift his chin up with a caring hand, make him look into my eyes, give out a lighthearted grin to his troubled face, and gently propose :

-”Let's say your King is a generous one, Captain, and he's willing to share for a while. Would you take what he's offering you?”

 

 

Before he even opens his mouth, the darkness exploding in his eyes promises much more than any sentence could say.

-”But... the Cardinal...” he still objects, _oh, lawful, courteous Treville._

 

-”I'll take care of that.” I dismiss. ”Answer me.”

 

He hesitates, just for a short while, between doubt, danger, and what sounds like a dream of his coming true.

He hesitates, just a moment, a virtuous man recoiling from sin, but I am his King after all, and I might be the only man on earth he could safely seal this kind of deal with.

-”Yes.” He eventually breathes. “Yes, I will.”

 

 

I feel myself smirking again. Before I let go of him, I let my thumb pass upon his lips, and as if to sign the contract, the good soldier parts them a little, lets me in, and licks a short line on my fingertip.

 

Handsome, _delicious war hound._

 

I find my breath a bit too shaky for my tastes and spin around, picking up my glass of wine on my way to the window.

 

-”You are relieved, Captain.” I order. “I will wait for the Royal Guard here.”

 

I hear him salute and bow, stride to the door and slam it shut.

Left alone to watch the grim skyline of Paris facing the worst of wintertime, I drown the rest of my cup, preparing the rest of my day.

Now the Captain has signed the pact, the other half of the negotiations remains to be struggled through before I get the pleasure I'm aiming for, and though I needed to show confidence in front of Treville, I'm afraid this is going to be something else entirely.

 

 

 


	2. The King and the Snake

 

 

 

I could command him.

 

 

I could grab his hair, pull him down, make him kneel, and tell him what I want.

He would obey. _He always does._

 

In those bright, demented eyes of his, I am higher than man, higher than God, and if I demanded he cut himself open from heart to guts for me, he would.

 

I could just tell him to be quiet and do as I say, I know.  
  
But truth be told I don't want to.  
Not today. _Not anymore._

 

 

 

 

Hurting him into obedience is something I've done before. Something I've done for years.

 

I have grown out of it.

 

 

I am more than the furious child, more than the forlorn son. I am more than the puppet of my own rage, I am more than all the things I've been denied. I am King of France, absolute and divine, lifted up to supreme power by a machinery of state covering lands larger than anywhere in past history.

 

I am more than what I once was, and so is he.

 

He's not my mother's wretched favorite anymore, he's not the cunning snake, slithering his way to power between betrayal and unspeakable sin. He doesn't need to lie, to cheat, to sell himself anymore.

He is not the miserable bishop of that nameless town anymore, he's Duke and pair de France, Generallissime of the Armies, Superintendent of the Palace, and he's right where he wanted to be, in my Council, at my side, in my heart, _in my bed._

 

 

We bloomed together into the men we were bound to be, and my hands have learned to praise what they used to strike; my voice has learned to soothe when it used to shout.

 

If I am ever violent with him, it's because he asks me to.

 

 

 

-” _Louis, please!_ ”

 

 

Like now.

 

 

 

I pull my fingers out of him, and he whines in loss, lying on his back between the plainer sheets of my bed in Versailles, arching his hips in provocative grace. Though he stubbornly keeps averting his eyes, his raging need is clear enough, flushed and twitching under my hand.

 

I know what he wants, I know what that _please_ was for, but I still take time to squeeze, lick and bite on the flesh of his inner thighs first, relishing the way he gasps and shudders at my touch. For too long it seems, because he starts crying out at some point, on the exact desperate tone that drives me mad with lust every time, blurring my vision with hunger.

 

_Sly bastard, I know you're doing it on purpose._

 

I roughly grab one of his legs and throw it over my shoulder, brutal enough to remind him that though he can play me like a harp with those devilish sounds he makes, I am still twice as strong as he'll ever be, but the wicked creature doesn't seem to mind at all, rejoicing in my strength, thriving in obedience.

Drunk with this power willingly given I lie down upon him, forcing him to feel the weight of me, not smothering but crushing all the same, and slide a forceful hand around his throat.

 

When I tighten my grasp a little, he knows he has to say my name again.

 

-”Louis.” He sighs, and I close my eyes at how perfect, how _infinite_ that sound will always feel.

 

 

I repay his devotion with a long caress down his side, then seize his hip tight, angle my throbbing cock and bury myself deep.

He adjusts to me without a wince, yelling in the delightful burn of the first thrusts. His thin fingers grip my arms, begging for more, for _everything_ of me, even my brutality.

I sense his need to be taken whole, filled, bruised, and I know he’s stronger than he looks. My dear Armand has survived just as many wars as I did, and the strain his lithe body can take is uncanny.

 

So I pound him harsh, again and again, making the whole bed creak, the sound of our skins both measured and obscene, the music of his cries whitening out my sanity. He moans, ecstatic, welcoming my assault with every ripple of his body, fulfilled by my bliss just as much as his own. It lasts for a while, long enough for me to lose my mind, moaning loud, panting hard, and muttering crude praise to his docility, his cries, or the firmness of his ass.

 

He's pliant, he's famished, fervent and gorgeous, but despite his resolve, a time comes where his mouth starts to tense with pain and I know I need to slow down.

 

It happens every time. He wishes, I think, he could stand my ardor until the end, but his body, his nerves are so sensitive I need to impose myself calmer rhythms at some point, or I might end up hurting him again, like I did too many times before.

 

I pull out gently, then, and slide back in, minding my angle, focusing on him.  
He immediately quivers, so intense it’s almost frightening, screaming in pleasure, gripping my arms hard enough to draw blood. His hips jerk up to join me, _God, he tightens inside_ and I hear myself groaning in frenzy.

 

-“Armand!” I call, I don’t know why, I just need to.

 

-“Yes,” he pants throwing his head backwards, “yes, Louis, _please!_ ”

 

 

_Well, who am I to deny such ardent supplication._

 

I give him five more slow thrusts, keeping a gentle, but inescapable hold of his throat, anchoring his body while his mind spirals up into a craze. He crosses his ankles behind my back, pushing me deeper, his cries getting high-pitched, pleading, senseless.

 

His eyes are wet and unseeing, five more pushes and he'll be gone, _it's far too good to end so fast._

  
So I freeze abruptly, pinning his hips into place to stop him from moving, giving him absolutely not touch, no sound to feed on.

 

-“ _Louis!_ ” He quickly yells, out of breath, out of control, urging me into motion with a twitching leg around my waist.

 

I still refuse to indulge him, grinning at the sight of my beast gone wild, his face crossed by wet strands of silver hair, white skin glistening in candlelight, blurred eyes staring up at me in suspended pleasure, his hands resentful, his moans distressed.

 

No King on this Earth I am sure is richer than me right now.

 

 

I lean down, slowly, struggling to not let him know my own need is just as hard to delay as his, but I have a plan, and the time is right.

 

-”Do you want to please me, Armand?” I breathe against his cheek.

 

-” _Yes!_ ” He cries, of course, and I nod in appreciation.

 

-”Good.” I rasp, delighted. “What would you do to please me, my Moon?”

 

-”Anything, Louis, please!”

 

 

_My beloved, devoted Beast, you never fail my expectations._

 

I exhale a sharp laugh, tilt my head so I can kiss this lovely mouth, and thrust inside him again, sluggish, unhurried. He jolts, almost overwhelmed, his pleasure heightened by the forced break.

I do that again, two, three times, rubbing that spot inside of him I know by heart, and he's howling against my lips by now, chanting praise, moaning adoration, covering me in sweet words I never thought I deserved, _oh, Armand, my shadow, my nighttime._

 

I'd wage a thousand wars for every inch of your soft skin.

 

Four, five, and his hands fly into my hair. That's it. He's over the edge.

 

He mouths my name once, and then he speaks no more. He just tenses, his whole body clenching violently, and while he comes hard and long, twitching tight around my cock, I start pounding him again.

I make it harsh and I make it fast, the way I like it best, and I can afford to be selfish, because in his climax he'll barely be feeling a thing. I ravish him, muffling my cries in the crook of his neck, and in less than a minute I think I die once more, burned alive in the furnace of my bliss, spilling myself empty in the compliant warmth his body is.

 

 

 

I stay inside for a short while as I often do, dizzy, gasping, fighting to catch my breath against the skin of his collarbone while he tentatively arranges my hair, his shaking fingertips worshipping my skin with awe and thankfulness.

 

Soon enough though, I pull apart, slide out of him and collapse on his side, waiting for some strength to come back to my buzzing limbs before I grab his wrists to kiss them on the inside, without a word since I don't trust my voice in that state.

 

He smiles gracefully, his long eyelashes throwing delicate shadows on his cheeks, and I cannot seem to focus on anything else than the curves of his hair around the refined globe of his shoulder. He whispers something against my ear, about my eyes, I think, and rushes away to fetch a cloth and clean ourselves the way he knows I appreciate. When he's done he brings me wine, sitting on the edge of the bed with an elegance I won't hope to match until tomorrow.

 

I drink, the sweet Bordeaux easing the soreness in my throat, and hand back the cup with, I am sure, a lovestruck face I wouldn't want anyone else to know about. Still high with pleasure, sated and appeased, I let the back of my hand stroke his temple and speak, since I feel steadier by now:

 

-”You've been exquisite. Again.”

 

 

He lowers his eyes, his head, and then his whole body, crawling next to me like a cat, and snuggling close with a low chuckle.

 

I am sincere, I always am, I never lied to him once. He has been truly magnificent tonight, giving me the highest bliss only him could provide, and God witness I love this madman with every scrap of my soul.

 

But on the other hand, I do have a plan, _and the time is right._

 

-”You said you'd do anything to please me...” I muse, letting my fingertips run up and down his back. “Well, there is something I want.”

 

He has a start, quickly sits up and searches my face, hopeful, expectant, eager to serve _, oh, dear Armand._

 

-”Of course, my King.” He says. “Please, just name it.”

 

 

 

I don't, not right away.  
I smile instead, lazy, enjoying his devoted eyes upon me, and sweep a satisfied look around the room.

 

 

I'm not sure Armand truly likes Versailles.

It’s always empty and silent, sturdy and plain, far from the epicenter of politics, far from diplomats, advisors, courtiers. By this time of the year, it’s also cold and forlorn, lost in a naked forest buried in the snow under thick grey skies.

This hunting lodge, without a library or a painting, has no use or interest to him I guess, yet he never refuses my invitations here. He knows, I suppose, that Versailles is the last place where I can truly be alone, and the peace and freedom I gain here always make my moods very _agreeable_ to him.

Earlier this afternoon once more, as I asked him to dine with me in Versailles he followed me without question, taking with him the revocation letters I required, and the necessary means to write a few more.

 

Dear Armand surely thought I invited him here to focus on our work.

 

 _I am sorry, my Beast, but I do have another plan._  
  
And the time, I fear, is right now.

 

 

I gaze distractedly at the roaring fire in the hearth, bathing the mess of our discarded clothes on the floor in a warm orange glow.

 

Outside, the cold is kept at bay by thick stone walls and iron shutters. We can hear the winds howling against the slate roof, but all their attacks remain defeated. Nothing comes in to disturb our embrace, and I find this tranquility precious.  
Inside, no sound, no voice, as the whole mansion only contains five people tonight, both of us and the three Royal Guards who escorted us here. In the middle of winter, there isn’t even a valet in Versailles, and I find this solitude priceless.

 

I pass a languid finger on his jaw, then descend a winding line downwards until it brushes his soft stomach, the tip of his flaccid shaft, and the bruises left by my fingers as they grabbed his hip during our passion.

 

-”I want you to let someone else do those things to you.” I breathe.

 

His eyes grow huge with terror, of course, and he grabs a bed sheet to press it against his heart, crawling away from me as if he could escape my very words. He recoils, for sure, but he doesn’t leave the bed, his skin still drawn to mine by the pleasure we just shared, and so far, despite his whimpers of heartbreak, I think my plan is working fine.

 

 

-“ Have I done something wrong?” He wheezes, panicked, his face bloodless, his hands shaking. “Are you… Am I being… dismissed?”

 

_Dear God, this man's mind will never be at rest._

 

-“For God’s sake, Armand!” I almost plead, gesturing at the crumpled bed we're both in. “I’m lying here next to you, still dizzy with orgasm, do I really look like I could be _dismissing_ you?”

 

 

His frightened stare instinctively gauges my whole body. He sees, I'm sure, how limp, how quenched it is, droplets of feverish sweat lingering on my back, soft rasp still hovering in my breath. He blinks, then, forced to admit I am beyond satisfied while his relentless angst still makes him whisper:

 

-“If my… abilities are not sufficient anymore, I could…”

 

-“Oh, bloody Hell, calm down!” I hiss, shifting towards him, reaching out to stroke his light, soft hair. “You are enough. Most of the time you even are too bloody much if you want to know.”

 

My hand grazes his high cheekbones, his thin pale lips, and the delicate lines of his neck. I lean forward to lay wet, sloppy kisses on his throat, and I only stop when he lets out a low whine of reluctant bliss.

I look up into his burning eyes of anthracite, then, and purposefully keep myself low, making my voice as gentle as I can:

 

-“I just want… to try something.”

 

-“Something?” He repeats, wary.

 

 _Perfect._  
Wary is good. Wary is better than terrified.

 

 

-“I want to watch.” I breathe just below his ear, tasting the troubled pulse there for a while.

 

 

He pauses, frowning, and I recognize the calculations rushing back in his eyes.

If those matters of devious pleasures are new and foreign to me, they certainly are the same to him, and he needs time to follow my drift, but my Red Beast is the smartest man in France, and I trust him to be quick.

 

 

-“You want to watch me having sex with another man?” He ends up asking, his voice cautious, his tone guarded.

 

 

-“ _Yes._ ” I almost pant, pictures of his silky skin worshipped by a soldier's rugged hands coming back to set my guts aflame.

 

He gasps a little at how famished I must sound, and his frown deepens, as if he could see for himself those images whirling behind my eyes.

 

-“Do you already have… someone in mind?” He tries, suspicious, _see how clever he is._

 

-“Yes.”

 

-“Might I ask…?”

 

 _Excellent._  
He's asking. Asking is good.  
It means he's not refusing anymore, and despite the lines of worry around his eyes, I think my plan is working just fine.

 

I lay a hand around his waist, offer him a playful smile, and muse almost innocently :

 

-“Captain Treville seems to like you very much.”

 

Now, he _does_ jump out of the bed, yanking himself out of my grasp, crying out in outrage.

 

-“ _**Treville?** _ ” He spits, hugging my sheet tight around his heaving chest. “ _Never._ ”

 

-“Why?” I pursue, lying on my side, still reaching out for him, still stubbornly smiling. “He’s handsome, loyal, and would die before he hurts any of us. I’ve talked to him this morning, he’s very eager to-”

 

-“You’ve _talked_ to him?” he cuts in, a surge of hurt and anger threatening in his usually smooth, meek voice.

 

I vaguely realize it's not a clueless mud-town bishop I just infuriated, but a dictator of state, a landmark of the century. He's a warrior, just as great as I am, victor of La Rochelle, nightmare of his foes, but I forbid myself to succumb to doubt.

 

We both bloomed into the men we were bound to be, and though he has grown from a sparrow to an eagle, I am still his Master, I am still his King.

 

-“How else could I know he’s willing to join us ?” I shrug, nonchalant, as if it was but a child's game.

 

 

He inhales a shuddering breath, understanding how planned, how settled it already is, and I see the fearful light of a deer caught in a trap ignited in his eyes before he forces rationality back on his thoughts.

He starts weighing his options, then, pulling on the strings of his brilliant strategist mind, and after a while he narrows his eyes at me, speaking in a slow, meticulous voice:

-“If I refuse, will you force me?”

 

 

 

Hah. _Here we are._

 

I knew, somehow, that he would end up putting things that way, challenging me to stand for that freedom of choice I granted him, for this part of my absolute power I relinquished.

 

Because it's true, I could command him.

I could grab his hair, pull him down, make him kneel, and tell him what I want.

He would obey.

 

_He always does._

 

 

But I am King of divine right, I am whoever the Hell I want to be, and I chose long ago not to be that man anymore. Even if it means I could be denied of something I want _– again_ -, I can be more than raw authority.

 

-“No.” I promise, and I never lied to him once.

 

 

 

He exhales, slowly, straightening his back a little, looking down at me in calculation again, and God, how sublime he is, draped in my sheet like those antique statues he likes to collect, tall and graceful in front of the lively fire, the messenger of Gods, the last of the Caesars.

 

His silence stretches for far too long, and through my armor of confidence, the ghost of my ancient fear of rejection crawls its way back around my heart.

My voice, I think, has never been as humble as it is right now, when I press, uneasy:

 

-“Will you refuse, then?”

 

But no matter the inner fight that was raging in his mind, his faith, his love, and his will to please win over his fears, and he gently shakes his head:

 

-“No.” He says, and I let out an undignified groan of sheer lust.

 

 

-”Very good, my Moon.” I mumble, beckoning him back to me. “Very good.”

 

 

 

He walks to the bed, letting me grab his hand and pull him down at my side, and from this moment on, I dedicate myself to demonstrate I can be a very kind, very permissive King.

 

It takes time, and it takes focus. It takes, among other things, making him come one more time under the restrained passion he prefers, and moaning into his ear, no doubt, a lot more courtesy than I usually would.

It takes me getting up for once to serve him the wine he desperately needs after hours of crying out and, noticing the way his heavy-lidded eyes devour the sight of my bare body as I stand next to the bed, making a provocative show of walking around the room to find another bottle of Bordeaux.

 

This kind of service is his specialty much more than mine of course, but I don't mind the role switch that much. After all, it is only a just reward for the pact he accepted to sign.  
  
Besides, I like the way he looks at me.  


I takes, at last, before he finally deigns to fall asleep, one more hour of talking, defeating one by one his regiments of insecurities, repeating time and time again that if the pleasures of the flesh can be shared once in a while, the unique bond that exists between our souls is unwavering, genuine, forevermore _exclusive._

 

I don't want to linger on the thought that what I am speaking to him sounds far too much like bloody _vows_ , so I bury my trouble under a careless smile once more:

 

 

-”You might enjoy it a lot, if you allow yourself to.” I push, trying on a seductive tone.

 

 

He doesn't say a word, he just closes his eyes, but when I tell him I will send one of the guards back to Paris tomorrow morning to fetch Treville and bring him back here, his face doesn't even twitch, and he nods in quiet, trustful consent.

 

 

I kiss his forehead twice and gather him against me.

 

 

Despite exhaustion burning in every bone of my body, I think I can say my plan worked out flawless.

 

 

 


	3. The Sun, the Moon and the Soldier

The hooves of the Royal Guard’s horse send furtive powdery clouds up in the air as they hit the early morning snow. The loyal soldier rides to Paris, and will be coming back with Captain Treville in a few hours.

A thick white coat is covering the whole domain and alleys, pathways or landmarks are all hidden from sight, so I watch him find his way to the main road with concern. When he’s nothing more than a faint shadow beyond the naked willow trees I nod to myself, gather my cape around me and turn back to the Lodge.

 

 

I woke up a few minutes before dawn in the warm nest of my bed, Armand in deep slumber at my side. He was barely touching me as always, but he was gripping a few fingers of mine tight into his hand. I felt the peaceful, fulfilled smile that only happens in Versailles slowly stretch my lips, and kissed his hair a few times. When I unlocked his grip off my hand he didn’t even stir, and I got up without waking him up.

I got dressed, delightfully neglecting my Court attire to put on a plain woolen doublet and my father’s old hunting cloak. The black bear skin is almost peeled on the edges, but that’s the warmest thing I ever owned.

I revived the fire, as Armand is more sensitive than me to the chill of a room, and darted outside in joyful strides, eager to smell the briskly air of my forest. I met my Royal Guards on duty in the hall as expected, and chose the lieutenant, Blumeneau, an old fox experienced enough never to ask questions, to go and find Treville for me.

The man ran to the stables, and I sent the two others into rounds around the Lodge.

 

-“But, Your Majesty, the youngest of the two dared, “how about your close protection?”

 

I let out a joyful laugh, and flapped my coat aside to show my sword and pistol, pointing at the windows of my bedroom above my shoulder.

-“I’ll be up here with these, the wisest man in France, and the Captain of the Musketeers.” I told them, nonchalant. “I pity the moron who has planned my assassination today.”

 

They stared for a few seconds, of course, but eventually they saluted, dutiful, and ran to their horses in their turn. Left alone, I have watched Blumeneau leave the domain to fetch me the second half of the pleasant endeavor I set my sights on.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’m almost on the house’s doorstep when a few low barks make me spin around, only to be assaulted by Nero, my gamekeeper’s Gascon griffin. The thick grey dog throws himself at my chest, tail waggling in bliss, sniffing all over me as all hunting hounds do.

-“Ohla! Nero!” A gruff voice shouts beyond the corner of the Lodge, but the dog doesn’t care.

 

He knows me very well, and if his enthusiastic welcome splatters slush and mud everywhere on my clothes, it still feels more genuine than every grandiose salutations I can get in the Louvre. I chuckle in glee, descend the steps back to the alley and grab the first stick I see, the griffin still jumping around my legs. I throw the stick deep into the woods, and the playful hound sets off in pursuit.

 

Meanwhile, Achilles, the old gamekeeper, has trotted to my side, and is staring at me in pure irritation again.

It’s not the first time I come to Versailles without warning. I do that two or three times a year actually, but it doesn’t stop the grouchy wild man from being on the verge of a heart attack every time.

 

-“Your Majesty!” He grunts. “I’ve seen the Guards patrolling around and I came running. How long have you been here? I didn’t know!”

-“Yesterday evening.” I shrug, watching out for the dog in the darkness of the forest. “And you couldn’t know. I took my decision in the afternoon.”

-“But the house isn’t ready!” The old man pleads, and I lift a reassuring hand.

-“I know how to start a hearth fire, Achilles,” I say, “and I know where the wine is kept. I’ve built this place for a reason, and this reason is not to have a goddamn valet to open every door I step towards.”

 

Nero springs out of the woods like a devil, and rushes at me with the stick in his teeth. He jumps at my feet, splashing snow on my boots, and spits the broken piece of wood there, looking infinitely proud of himself. I flatter his head, pick up the stick and wave it in the air. The griffin whimpers in joy, famished to run into the woods again, frenzied by the snow, delirious with fresh air.

I let out a quiet smile.

 

 

We’re the same, after all, this rugged hound and me, drunk with wild scents and open spaces, born for nothing else than the hunt, the race, and sending sparks of dust into the sunlight.

 

Isn’t it funny, though, how this dog, allowed to sprint around the forest and be true to his primitive nature, is freer than I’ll ever be.

How the King of France, ruler of divine right from the Pyrenees to the Vosges, still has to wear a thousand masks every bloody day of his life.

 

I cover my bitterness in a loud grunt as I throw the stick again, a little harsher I fear, and Nero darts out.

 

I look up at the blind grey skies. Though the sun has risen slowly, the horizon is barely painted gold, and isn’t likely to get more colorful anytime soon. No sound, no cry is to be heard into the quiet bare woods, all wildlife buried in holes and caves until the reign of brighter days.

 

Until springtime comes to wake up my forest, I have sixty bland, meaningless days ahead of me.

_I intend to seize any opportunity for a thrill._

 

 

 

-“How long will you be staying?” Achilles insists next to me.

 

I sigh, looking down at his frowning face, his nose reddened from the cold, his scarce white hair falling on his forehead, his plain brown coat making him look at bit like one of trees he guards all year.

-“I don’t know, Achilles.” I whisper. “Two days no doubt, maybe more. I’m undecided.”

-“Undecided or not, you’ll need food at some point!” The old man snorts, pointing at the Lodge behind us. “Except for a few apples from the orchard, the pantry is empty at this time of the year!”

 

With that, he simply spins around, mumbling about going to the village for bread and milk. He complains that he’s too old for running, and yet darts off like a man in his prime, whistling imperiously for his dog.

Achilles never salutes, he never bows. He takes care of this place like it was made of his own skin and bones, and every time I come here, I bloody feel like I am his family guest more than his rightful King.

I don’t mind the slightest.

 

I built this place for a reason.

 

 

I turn towards the house again, burying my hands into my coat, but I haven’t walked ten yards before I hear a frantic run in the snow behind my back. I spin around, my hand upon my sword-

 

-and get knocked over by Nero, jumping on me with full force, his chewed stick still in his mouth.

 

I yell in shock and we both fall ion the ground, rolling in thick white powder. The stick is dropped on the side soon enough, but each time I try to push the griffin away he keeps coming back, barking in excitement, laying overjoyed licks around my face.

Lost in a whirl of snow and grey fur I grin like a child, I fear, laughing unconvinced commands for the hound.

-“Nero, sit! For God’s sake, down, boy!”

 

But the crazed animal only growls higher, nibbling at my sleeves with playful ease.

I almost sit up, winning over the enemy by sheer luck, and I’m most likely about to be pushed back in the snow when Nero freezes from nose to tail, looking over me towards the house.

 

One heartbeat later he’s gone, his bark turning from friendly games to sheer warning.

I blink, shaking slush away from my face, and stare at the Lodge’ doorstep in anguish.

 

_Dear God._

 

-“ _**Nero!** _” I call, urgent.

 

The dog does stop, inches from the stairs, but keeps on barking loud, menacing and irate, at the tall slender figure in white that appeared on the threshold.

 

I exhale a short sigh of relief.

 

If we are both hounds, Nero and me, well.  
_Here comes a cat._

 

Armand looks down at the griffin with haughty eyes, petrified above the stairs of the House, wrapped into the delicate, pristine fur coat of his that was never meant for outdoors. He doesn't shout, he doesn't twitch, he just lifts his chin, showing the dog he's far above him, just like a white Persian would arch his back at a stranger.

 

Achilles, who has heard his dog’s racket I suppose, comes back running around the building to yell for him. After a few half-hearted whines, Nero leaves us to trot towards his master. The gamekeeper spreads his arms in apology and I reassure him with a careless wave of my arm, getting up in a whirl of snow and dead leaves.

When the old man and the dog have disappeared into the white mist I walk to my Beast with a relaxed smile. I pat my cloak as best as I can, but when I arrive next to him, his scolding eyes confirm the worst of it might be in my hair.

 

So I shake it roughly, making most of the white dust fall upon his coat, and he shudders away from the cold substance with a cautious glare.

 

A white cat indeed.

 

I let out a short laugh, as a peace offering, and take his hand to lead him back inside.

 

-”Good morning, Armand.” I murmur, simply elated to be able to call him that way anywhere else than in a locked room inside the Palais Cardinal. “Have you eaten yet?”

He shakes his head, _of course not,_ the lunatic needs to be reminded to eat two bloody times a day.

 

I urge him back to the bedroom. Not that I don't want him anywhere else, not at all, my house is his as much as mine, but his hands are ice-cold already, and my bedroom is the only place properly warmed up.

Everything I have plans about, anyways, is supposed to happen up there.

 

So I let him precede me upstairs, marveling for a while at the waves of white mink fur sliding behind his feet in a slow, rhythmic dance. His elegance, it’s the gift, the witchcraft of him. Whatever he wears, whatever he does, no matter the state of madness or exhaustion he's in, he just beams that same sheer grace, each one of his moves calculated and studied, made to impress, to silence, to threaten, to charm.

I promise I'll join him soon, my voice a bit too hoarse maybe, and rush towards the pantry to steal a few apples and a jar of candied plums that I'm surprised to find there. Then, on a hunch, I make a detour for the cellar. I won't find a torch in the empty, freezing Lodge, but I don't need any. I know this place like my own pocket. I lay down the food on the basement's doorstep and dive into the dark, hands in front of me, touching my way to the most unused part of the wine reserve.  


There, on the cold dry floor, I know there's a basket with six bottles in it. In those six ancient bottles, there is my father's private cuvee, the Jurançon. After decades of being served to King Henri’s mistresses to mellow their reticence, I have a feeling the time has come for this liquid fire to serve my own purposes.

There it is. I grab it and step back towards the light, picking up the food along the way.

 

I stride to the first floor and slam my bedroom's door shut with a satisfied sigh.

 

 

Armand is waiting of course; looking through the window with a cup of herbs in his hands, magnificent in his winter robes, his fur coat neatly folded on a chair. I walk to the only table my bare bedroom has and drop my trophies upon it, smiling like I am a band new kind of cornucopia.

 

Doing so, I cannot miss the letters and papers he brought along, purposefully laid there to remind me there is work to be done, and my grin fades to a disgruntled flinch.

 

_Armand de Richelieu._

My Red Beast, my shadow, my lover, my Moon alright, but my Minister also, and sometimes above all.

 

I look up at him and he has that gentle, docile drop of the shoulders that say “ _please_ ” like no spoken word could ever do.

 

I clench my teeth, _very well._  
I will grant some time to his beloved State.

 

But I'll be damned if I don't circle around the table to throw myself at him first, pinning him against the window frame and demanding a kiss. He tilts his head and obliges, joining our lips in keen, skilful strokes, opening his mouth before I even tell him to, and letting his warm, deft tongue brush against mine with a hungry whimper, _God, the bastard feels good._

I cup his cheeks, deepening our embrace, biting at his soft lips, brushing the delicate lines of his jaw, making it last until I cannot breathe. Between us his cup of tea is trembling, unwilling hostage to our bliss.

Only after a few minutes of that luxury I deign to let go of him, grinning in triumph as he sways a little, his eyes darkened by an untamable need for more.

I leisurely step back to the documents, then, letting go of my cloak and throwing at him on a defiant tone:

-”Well, to work, Monsieur du Plessis. Those letters won't write themselves.”

 

He freezes, stunned, blinking at his heaps of papers for a moment before he clears his throat, brushes a shaking thumb on his wet swollen lips, and gives me a sardonic bow.

Fair game.

 

He leaves his cup aside, sits at the table, pushes his hair away from his eyes with the soft excitement he always shows when we’re about to get things done, and dips a quill in his ink pot. He opens his mouth to speak, but I lift a commanding finger first, pushing an apple under his nose and opening the jar of plums, my order very clear. He hesitates for a moment, then picks up the apple and takes a bite in it, looking up at me with wide meek eyes of burning embers.

 

I nod, and snap my fingers, allowing him to talk.

 

 

 

And so we work for one, or two hours I think, the building of an efficient military and trade regulation system more complex than I thought. It requires us to break into century-old corporations and replace them with local state officers, all of them loyal to me. It will even out all French Cities’ taxes and privileges, and will no doubt raise more problems than it will solve.

 

But it is the way, the _only_ way a coherent country is built from bits and pieces of ancient times, duchies, principalities, enclaves and independent towns. Without that tedious, bothersome chore, France literally will not exist, and a wide, powerful France is what I’ll be the King of, I will tolerate no compromise.

 

It’s for that purpose and that purpose alone we have both been put on this Earth, this demented priest and me.

 

 

He does most of the talking, as always, while I only let out syllables and short sentences, pacing around the room, my fingertips brushing the bare wooden walls, the plain blue curtains or the sturdy furniture. Somehow he manages to speak and write at the same time, not even about the same things I’m sure, focused, ecstatic, blooming once more into the orderly, methodical genius he is, letting no loose end alive, his eyes burning with quick thinking.

As he scribbles a list of things to be done later in Paris, I smirk once more at the deranged miracle he is, far too unstable to bear a crown for sure, but with a brilliant mind that couldn’t be matched, I fear, by anyone in my bloodline, including myself.

 

I needed him just as he needed me.

_God above witness how perfect we are together, and dare tell me why you deemed our love a mortal sin._

 

In my pacing I stride close to him again, passing a caring hand into his hair. He looks up and smiles, purring at the touch, and I can’t help grabbing his silver strands tight and ravish his mouth once more. He drops his quill immediately, arching into me, moaning against my lips, because he knows I am pleased by his service, and that always sends him to surprising heights of pleasure.

 

I take my time again, enjoying it all I want, and as I get back up, licking my lips in delight, a spot of brown upon the immaculate snow outside catches my eyes.

 

 

_Oh._

I slide to the windows, _yes, that’s what I thought.  
_The other half of my plan has arrived.

  
Captain Treville has dismounted in front of the Lodge’s stairs and is handing the reins over to Blumeneau so the lieutenant can guide his horse to the stables. He shakes his wide blue coat from the slush of the road, pulling off his hat to flap it against his thigh, sending clots of snow all around his legs.

He looks around for me at first, and since he’s not stupid at all, soon enough he narrows his eyes, looking up towards the windows of my bedroom.

He knows where to find us.  
_He does know why he’s here._

 

 

He notices me, I think, because he clicks his heels instinctively, and I beckon him upstairs with a tilt of my head. With that, I spin around, meeting Armand’s eyes turned cold.

 

-“He’s here.” My Red Beast states.

Though I smile merrily as I nod, I don’t find the tight line of his lips promising _at all._

 

 

 

Steady footsteps in the stairs, a decided walk in the corridor, and a polite knock on the door.

Armand gets up, gathers our papers and carefully slips them into a thin leather folder. As I walk past him towards the door, I sense him straightening his back with with the stiff sophistication he uses in his worst moments at Court, _overanxious, jealous creature he is._

So instead of opening the door myself I stay within his reach and call :

-”Come in!”

 

The Captain pushes the door open and steps in, his hat in his hand, careful to keep his muddy boots away from the rug. He slides the door shut almost without a sound, and gives me the regular military bow.

-”Your Majesty.” He croaks, his voice, I guess, ruined by hours of riding in the cold.

 

Then, he looks over at Armand at my side, his eyes turning just as cold, and grants him the briefest of all salutes.

 

-”Your Eminence.” He hero thunders.

 

-”Captain Treville.” The snake hisses.

 

 

The whole room suddenly seems to be frozen in ice, and I roll my eyes to the ceiling, _oh for God's sake, none of you is going to bloody help me aren't you?_

I exhale a sharp sigh, almost tempted to give up.

 

  
But my Moon is right here, sublime and delicate, his face smooth and lively after a good night's sleep, and so is Treville, vibrant with hardly disciplined strength, his steely eyes still more resolute than afraid.

 

They're both absolutely gorgeous.  
Didn't I wish for distraction?  
  
  
Well, I have learned the best ones are never easy to get.

If I want it to happen, I'd better _make it._

 

 

So I spring into motion, offering a chair for the Captain, reaching out for him with a nonchalant smile.

-”Sit down, Treville.” I beckon. “You must be hungry. The meal is frugal as it is, but it will be better tonight.”

The Musketeer mumbles his gratitude, unclasps his coat and discards it on a low stool along with his hat. He comes to sit at the table, rigid with unease but fighting not to show it, _oh, brave soldier of France._ I offer him the fruits, my hand on his shoulder a bit unnecessary maybe, but inviting nonetheless.

And picking up three glasses in the plain, sturdy cupboard every bedroom in Versailles has, I go for the basket to retrieve the first bottle of Jurançon. I laboriously twist out the cork and make a show of filling the cups myself, humming almost innocently.

Treville never knew my father's Court, and doesn't flinch as I serve him the wicked wine, but Armand, _my dear Armand_ knows pretty much everything, and narrows his eyes at the strong yellowish syrup poured in his glass.

He knows what the Jurançon has always been meant for.

 

Our eyes meet, and I deliberately ignore his knowing frown, presenting him a wide, steady grin instead.

I nod at his chair. He sits back with strained obedience, but bloody looks like he'd need the threat of a fully armed regiment to even touch his glass.

Ironically, it's the Louvre's Court etiquette who closes the trap around him, as it dictates that Treville offers a toast to my health and good life first. Armand cannot decently refuse that, and I find it hilarious that this absurd protocol, carved in the soldier's head to a pure instinct, comes to helps me in the very place I built to escape it.

 

-”To France and our rightful King!” The Captain speaks, downing his glass in a nervous gulp.

 

Armand and I are much more cautious with the burning wine, and only take a small sip, watching Treville wince in surprise and give out a small cough.

The Jurançon gets stronger with age.

 

 

Smiling agreeably, pacing around the table once more to distribute warm stares and cajoling brushes of my hand, I chose to make them talk first. The subject has no importance whatsoever, but I carefully avoid State business, as it's the main source of their bickering. I chose a glorious battlefield instead, the taking of Pignerol, and muse over a few details of the strategy we used.

I know Armand has been brilliant that day, designing an intricate ruse that gathered all our troops around Turin first, to make Charles-Emmanuel, Duke of Savoy, believe we were attacking his Capital, then turning our heels abruptly in the middle of the night to attack Pignerol, left with only one regiment since the Duke had summoned all his men to Turin on the double.

I also know Treville has covered himself in triumph just the same, leading alone a cavalry battalion of fifty men straight to the stronghold's gates, cutting a breach in the old fort's defenses with incredible nerve.

 

I was very proud of them both, I remember, and insisted upon having them around me at the celebration feast, offering them rewards they both humbly refused.

 

My enthusiasm, if a bit overdone, is definitely catching, since they do give out nostalgic smiles as I revive those illustrious memories for them, and after I thoroughly praise both their merits, I hear them exchange timid, shortened, but unmistakably friendly sentences.

-”This assault,” Armand muses, his slender hands hovering around his glass, “though definitely reckless, has been artfully lead.”

-”It had been made quite easy by Your Eminence's strategy.” Treville gives back, lowering his head in gentle congratulation.

 

I bite my lips to hide a victorious smile.  
_Very good._

 

Despite my growing impatience I grant them time, because there are things you cannot rush. I let the conversation linger on comfortable topics, mostly about the dynamics of war, since they ignite the same kind of flame in both their eyes. After two bottles have died, when I don't feel them circling around each other like caged wolves anymore, I decide to take another step.

I don't say anything, I just stop walking around the table to go for the hearth and drop three thick logs in it, then to the cupboard, to lay down my glass there, and unbuckle my baldric. They don't exactly stop talking, because they're discussing the second campaign of Montauban and this is just too captivating for them, but I hear behind my back their speech gradually slowing down.

They're watching me.  
_Very good._

 

I drop my weapons on the cupboard, and untie my plain doublet. It takes half the time needed for the absurd brocade I have to wear at Court, and I'm bloody thankful for that. I leave my cambric shirt on, unknotting the front ties, perfectly aware of how revealing it is, and without even a glance over my shoulder I kick my boots off, and slide out of my pants. My shirt goes mid-thigh, that's how merciful I am.

 

Their voices, by now, are definitely silent.

 

I lean over to the bed, grab the thick black dressing gown I have abandoned there yesterday night as I undressed for Armand, and slip in on, barely folding it around my chest. Only then I turn around, pick up my glass again, and empty it listlessly, my eyes fixed on Treville's.

 

Even from yards apart the Captain's trouble is plain to see. His stubbly cheeks have turned bright pink, and he makes a visible effort to look only at my face.

 

Armand, on the other side of the table, is stricken by terror I know, but he's my shadow, my nighttime, my devoted lover, and it is doubtless obedience, nothing else, that keeps him exactly where I want him.

_Well, don't you worry my Moon.  
There will be time for you to satisfy me. _

 

As for now, my attention is for the soldier.

I walk straight to him, breaking once more into his personal space, almost touching, but not quite. I see his throat bobbing as he bravely manages to look at me in the eye while my dressing gown softly brushes his shoulder. I extend my empty glass towards him, and nod at the third bottle.

He complies without a word, generously filling my cup. I gesture him to do the same for himself, which he does, a little unsteady. The Jurançon has gnawed at the composure he steeled himself with, and he looks, right now, much more like a powder keg with a burning fuse on it. I sense his raw energy, beaming through his skin, confused, untamed, and if I don't help him focus at some point, I fear he might just break something.

 

-”Drink with me, Captain.” I soothe, my eyes upon him as kind as I can.

He gets up, then, again as Protocol dictates, and raises his glass to France once more, his words, though shaky, filled with the same fierce, ardent belief.

I make him clear out his glass, then empty mine. We lay both our cups on the table, my eyes never leaving his handsome face. Under my stare his breath shortens, and as his willpower falters, I see him glance up and down my body once or twice in rising arousal. It's a wilder, more animalistic hunger than Armand's boundless adoration, but I still like it very much.

 

I reward it by leaning towards him and let our cheeks touch softly again, breathing into the trembling man's ear :

-”Now, it is against the law to bear weapons when your King is unarmed.”

 

The soldier gasps and takes a step back, looking down at his belt and sheathe. He stares back up at me, contrite, expecting reproach no doubt, but I simply gesture at the floor next to his feet.

He exhales some sort of relieved grunt I find very amusing.

-”My apologies, Your Majesty.” He rasps, and discards his gun and sword, crouching nimbly to lay them down upon the spot I've been pointing at.

 

_My well- behaved soldier of France._

 

I smile in pride and satisfaction as he gets back up, shifting close enough to him to touch this time, lifting a hand to stroke his rough jawline. His bright blue eyes blur in torment and drunkenness, his chest heaving against my own, his leather uniform creaking under the tension. I lay an encouraging kiss on the corner of his mouth, and he lets out a short whine, his hands clenching in helplessness.

He's feverish.  
Very good.

 

I gently release him then, sliding backwards, wrapping him in a pleased stare, and turn towards Armand.

 

My Beast is still sitting right where he was, and if there is indeed a bit of lust in his dark fiery eyes, it's widely washed out by sheer anguish, _God, I feel like breaking two wild horses._

-”Come here, Armand.” I whisper, loving enough to reassure him, firm enough to keep him subdued.

 

He stands, again with unmatched grace, and walks to my side, his eyes lowered, his lips sealed tight. I know Treville is watching very closely, so I gladly give the soldier a glimpse of what he's about to get.

I grab Armand's waist, pull him harshly against me and bite deep into his neck, making him cry out in shocked pleasure. I linger there, kissing and nibbling up to his ear since his stiff winter robes forbid me the skin of his collarbone. My Beast is crippled with fear, I know, but he still shudders when I let out a small groan of appreciation there, and I hear the Captain's breathing _hitch._

I glance over my shoulder, grinning in devious joy.

 

The Musketeer is gripping the backrest of his chair with bruising force, shivering in his battle to restrain himself, his eyes so intense it's almost unsettling.

The spark on the fuse is burning bright, getting closer to the powder with each passing second.

_Very good._

Time for the last blow.

 

 

I grab the back of Armand's neck and kiss him rough, conspicuously licking his lips open, making a show of how deft, how eager his pink tongue is. The Beast melts, but doesn't moan.

It's Treville who does, loud, desperate, the sound of him setting fire to my guts.

 

I pull apart, panting against Armand's cheek, and tug at the silk of his wide robes.

-”Well, now, beloved.” I breathe. “The Captain is waiting. Show a bit of good will, won't you?”

The Red Beast _bridles_ at first, hissing in panic, his whole body jerking backwards, but my hand on his neck gives a sharp squeeze, and his eyes dart to mine.

-” _Behave_.” I order, and he whimpers at my command.

He has a long wary look for Treville, his jaw working for a while, but of course, _of course_ , he lowers his long eyelids in the end, and starts unbuttoning the front of his dark red robes.

 

I show my contentment with a soft peck on his temple and step aside to let the Captain enjoy the view. Treville is staring alright, his eyes wide and demented, devouring the way Armand's thin fingers dance around the small buttons, revealing underneath a long white alb of the finest silk France could ever craft.

The soldier's breaths come in harsh, shuddering rasps, his thirst so fierce I instinctively lay a reassuring hand on Armand's lower back.

 

Encouraged, my beast obediently opens his robes to his hips, and as always, instead of going all the way down he simply lets the heavy silk slip from his lithe frame to a hissing heap on the floor.

I stare in lustful awe.

This very second, ever after six years now, never fails to make my heart skip a beat. The blood red that always covers him yields at last, leaving him beaming in pure clean white, the silken alb floating around him as if made of heavenly light, praising his milky skin more than any poet could do.

 

He stands there, eyes low, hands joined upon his heart, a prize offered to the soldier's famished eyes like the spoils of a war yet to be waged.

He stands there, warm and tame, so appealing I have to clench my hands not to take him whole right now, and yet, _and yet._

 

As I quietly gesture for Treville to seize what I offer him, the Captain despite his whirling hunger seems to break in pieces, averts his eyes, and takes a trembling step backwards.

I almost growl in vexation, _come on, soldier, I know you do want this,_ but I notice his steel blue eyes are filled with pained tears, and I suspend my anger.

 

He does want this. _Want_ is not the problem.

Want is written clear upon the soldier's brow, his tortured mouth, his twitching hands.  
He's aflame, he's dizzy, he's _mad_ with desire.

Want is not the problem.

 

-”Treville?” I call, genial, tempted to move closer, but wary of upsetting him further.

 

The soldier doesn't reply, and though I don't understand what's on his mind, my anger definitely dies, because I recognize upon his face the same guilt, the same shame he has shown yesterday, only much, _much worse._

Something's terribly wrong, and I must admit I'm almost afraid to ask.

 

-”Treville,” I still speak, determined, “when was the last time you indulged in such pleasures?”

 

The Captain visibly flinches, squeezing his eyes shut, and two thick teardrops roll down his honest face.

Inexperience. That's what I thought.  
_But there's more, isn't it?_

 

I don't press him for an answer, there's no need for that. I let the Musketeer steady his breathing a little, and eventually he speaks, low, mortified, his eyes still turned away from us.

-”In times of war,” he says, “during long sieges, soldiers … comfort themselves the way they can. In times of peace, thus, men with those inclinations know which comrade they can solicit for discrete agreements. I have been among those men for a while.”

 

He gulps around what seems to be a sob, _God there's much more I fear_ , and I see next to me Armand's eyes inspect his face with growing concern.

 

-“But when I have been named Captain,” the soldier goes on, “I have been granted the honor of the Royal Court, and the privilege of being in Your Majesty's close entourage. I couldn't permit myself any ungodly conduct anymore.”

Armand gasps, but I just blink, confused.

-”How-... how do you seek your share of warmth, then?” I stammer, and with that, Armand's delicate hand comes to pull at the rim of my dressing gown as he humbly whispers:

-”What he's telling you, Louis, is that he doesn't.”  
  
__  
  
My stomach turns to lead. I stare at the soldier, gaping in realization.  
I knew it, _I knew it was worse than inexperience._  
  
It is solitude.

 

Treville has been, just like me, locked in a cage with a name that isn't his, condemned to a life he didn't chose, his every move guarded, his every look restrained. He's been crushed, just like me, by endless days of fake smiles, cold nights, sad embraces, and now the bliss he barely dared to dream about is just within his reach, he cannot remember how to act like a free man.

He's been locked up in a prison of shame for far too long.  
The iron bars of his guilt have merged into his skin.

 

Fifteen years, _oh, such a waste._

He has been Captain of my Musketeers for fifteen years, and for half my bloody lifetime this precious, valiant warrior has been living in a loveless, barren hell, all of this for what?

_For me._

To preserve the Very Christian King from his unspeakable sin, _dear Treville, if I had known,_ but too busy wearing our masks every day of our bloody lives, we failed to see we were both of the same kind.

I bite my lips in remorse, oh, brave soldier, I should have noticed.  
_Forlorn, silent martyr of France._

 

At loss for words, inept as I always bloody am, I pass a nervous hand on my face, humbled, shaken, feeling unworthy of Treville's noble sacrifice, and in my agony, I barely feel Armand's fingertips brushing my hair a little, but I sense the loss of his warmth very well as he steps out of the heap of his own robes and walks closer to Treville.

He gently cups the soldier's cheek, making him look up, and gives out a peaceful smile.

-”Your undeserved penance does you honor, Captain.” He speaks. “You have proved your worth by serving your King far beyond your duty.”

Treville seems to bathe in the comfort of those words for a while, inhaling a shaky breath, his bright eyes shimmering in sheer hope.

-”Your suffering hasn't been vain,” my Moon goes on, steady, confident, “for Your King is strong by your hand, respected and feared as the ruler of a nation above any other, a nation you too helped to build. Your King is God's own will, God's own light, and be sure he will remember what you have done for his Crown in eternal gratitude.”

 

He speaks as he could read the Holy Word, quietly as the Christ himself. As I feel my torture appeased by the miracle of his speech, I understand he's not only speaking for Treville, his tranquil certitude meant to soothe the two of us, _oh, my Armand, divine creature._

The soldier, transported, steals a devoted, fervent gaze for me, and since in a thousand years I couldn't find a word to match those my shadow just said, I simply smile in thankfulness.

 

Then, without a twitch on his smooth face, Armand takes a hold of the soldier's hand to guide it around his waist himself, dropping his eyelids low as he whispers with a sinful beckoning in his voice:

-”But it might be time, by now, for your shame and loneliness to come to an end.”

And with that, he grabs the Captain's other hand, lifts it to his mouth and _swallows two of his fingers deep._

 

Divine creature, _wicked demon._

 

Treville _howls_ , his restraint shattering.  
_The powder keg has exploded._

 

He pushes Armand flat on the table, sending fruits and empty bottles rolling out of his way, smothering the thin frame with his sturdy chest, devouring the sight of his fingers slipping in and out of the pink wet lips.

 

I realize I am out of breath when I almost collapse sideways, dizzy, enthralled, blood pounding loud in my ears. I step back, groping around for an armchair next to the bed, and let myself fall into it.

Overwhelmed, I take some time to realize what I had hoped for is happening at last, and blink away the mist of my emotions to start feeding upon the sight of them.

 

Treville twists and rubs against Armand, wild, unhinged, welcomed by my Beast's subtle moans around his fingers, and the scorching carnality of them delivers every promise it could ever make. I watch them move in crazed awe, barely aware of my body heating up with need, but soon enough Armand lets go of the soldier's hand upon a last languid lick, and turns his wide eyes of anthracite to me with a glint I know too well.

He waits for my orders.

 

The Captain blinks out of his trance, follows my Beast's stare, and the wild thirst in his eyes as he looks at me dulls down into a softer, if just as fervent light.

_Now they both do._

 

I inhale sharply, slouching back into my seat, trying to get a grip on my sensations, my feelings, my thoughts, _come on, focus, they want you in control._

  
Besides, that's exactly the way I want it too.  
Both of them awaiting my word, handing the reins of their own pleasure over to me.

“ _Kings only are Kings”,_ my father used to say, _“by the power that's given to them.”_

 

I take one or two steadier breaths, resting my elbows on the armrests, and my head in my left hand. When I feel stable enough, I summon a playful voice and avidly assume command of their passion.

-”Don't you think all that leather is a bit superfluous, Armand?” I muse. “The Captain looks _bothered_.”

 

My Beast smiles a bit, eyes the soldier's uniform up and down, then nods. Treville straightens himself, pulling Armand up with him, and lets the pale slender hands untie his doublet with expertise. While he's gently undressed, I see him marvel at small details of my shadow's smooth skin, not unlike me sometimes. The crook of his neck, for sure, or the curve of his cheekbones. Lower glances for the hips, no doubt, and those flashes of graceful legs under that long white alb.

 

The Captain licks his lips again, and _I completely agree._

 

The thick brown doublet falls on the floor next to the soldier's weapons. The boots and pants follow in a series of loud thumps, and though I didn't order about it, Treville suddenly pulls his shirt over his head himself, standing stark naked against Armand.

 

My Beast, surprised, freezes for a while, his hands suspended in the air a few inches above the soldier's chest, his intrigued eyes sliding upon the Musketeer's frame.

Treville isn't very different from me, slightly leaner, perhaps, but the colors of him are unique.

He comes from the Southern border, I heard, where everyone is half-Spanish, and his skin tone is almost olive, making a charming contrast with his light brown hair. His scar pattern is foreign too, as the old war hound is much more damaged than me, mostly because he's among the men whose duty is making sure I'm never wounded. His hands are rougher, his gestures quicker, but his eyes remain mild, gentler than mine, even in the state of dazed lust he's in.

He's splendid. I want to have a closer look.

 

-”Bring me wine, Treville.” I command, snapping my fingers at him.

 

The soldier has a start, bows slightly for me, goes for the cupboard and does as he's told. While he fills my glass with that mighty wine, I catch my Beast's gaze and sternly nod towards the bed.

Armand lowers his eyes, slides past Treville and tiptoes to the four-poster. He lies down on his back upon the black rabbit fur covers there, and unties the front of his alb, arching his hips a little, making sure I enjoy my point of view, from my armchair against the wall, on his left, slightly below his knees.

 

With a famished lick of my thumb I show him I surely do, only laboriously yanking my eyes off the lines of his thighs when Treville comes with my glass of wine.

 

 

I take the cup from his hand, gauging his muscular frame without restraint. He looks solid as a tree, dry and knotted, supple and everlasting. His arms and legs are patched with light brown hair, matching the short tousled mess on his head, except where pale or reddened scars mark his sturdy skin.

He's indeed a bit leaner than me, the muscles more visible, more defined. I might be stronger, but I don't think a duel with Treville would prove easy for me. He must be fast, his instincts polished by years of training.

I pass a pleasured gaze upon his heaving chest, and glance down at his hard, dripping cock below a line of darker hair. He's not quite longer than me, but definitely heavier, and I fear Armand will _feel_ the difference very much.

 

I look back up into his clear blue stare, definitely what I prefer in him.

-”Kneel.” I order him.

 

His eyes widen and his legs twitch, but he doesn't abide immediately, reminding me that sinking on his knees isn't as natural for every man as it is for my submissive, devoted Armand.

I still hold the Captain's gaze with imperious calm for a few seconds, so when he actually drops one knee on the floor between my feet, it feels all the more satisfying.

I lean forward, smiling, lift his chin with a lenient finger and lay a long, lazy kiss on his mouth. He's much rougher than Armand, his stubble scratching against my lips, and the feeling is strange, yet pleasant to me. The soldier moans, his both hands gripping my thigh, so I suppose we're both satisfied.

I pull apart to marvel some more at the changing hues in the mountain lake of his eyes.

 

-”Jean.” I call, enjoying the tremor it sparks in him. “It is Jean, isn't it?”

 

-”Y-...yes, Your Majesty.” He pants, shaken.

 

I smile, seductive, and nod towards the bed.

-”Well, he's all yours, Jean.” I breathe. “ _Amaze me_.”

 

A wave of lust ripples through his body and his eyes darken dangerously as he gets up and crawls onto the bed.

 

Armand is waiting there, a bit nervous, but ever trustful. He makes himself inviting the way only he knows, stirring like a cat upon the covers, letting the unholy contrast between his milky skin and the black fur do all the work.

In front of _that_ , Treville isn't stronger than I would be.

 

He growls in hunger, lies down upon him and dives into the curves of his neck. Armand lets out one of his vicious, calculated sighs, half pleasure, half scheme, meant to drive wild more than to express anything, and Treville, innocent, naïve, shudders deep at the sound.

He licks a sloppy path up my Shadow's jaw and freezes half an inch away from his mouth. He peeks at me over his shoulder then, asking for permission.

I grant it with a nod.

 

He immediately takes Armand's mouth, licking him open like a starving man finding a cup of nectar.

My Beast arches into him, his supple hips brushing against the soldier's cock, and I hear Treville's heated cry loud and clear despite the kiss.The Captain's hips thrust on sheer instinct, searching for more contact as Armand starts to suck at his bottom lip like the most sinful of all pledges. Treville groans, grabbing the alb low and fumbling to lift it up, famished for more skin.

Nibbling and licking down to Treville's shoulder like the skilled creature he is, Armand lifts his eyes straight into mine, and I feel my own cock throbbing in need, God, I know the bastard is good, but I had of course never seen the whole view of him _at work._

 

It's bloody maddening.

 

I take a harsh gulp of wine, my bewildered stare hooked into his, and I let my thumb slowly wipe a drop of liquid fire on my lips. I lasciviously lick it clean, and Armand cries out in supplication.

I grin, triumphant, because that one cry wasn't a scheme at all.

Treville, set aflame by the delicious plea, moves to pull the alb over my Shadow's shoulders, and surprisingly, it's Armand's eyes he looks for, not mine, as he asks for consent. My Moon notices and gasps a little. He's not used to that.

It's true, _I never ask._  


 

A bit lost, Armand softly nods in agreement, and the soldier lifts up the silken fabric, revealing the perfect skin underneath, unscarred, intact, so pale it almost glows. The fire roars in the hearth, sendings flashes of molten gold upon the smooth surface of Armand's thighs, the colors of him inhumane, the feeling of him unearthly.

The Captain discards the alb and stares, petrified, at Armand's naked body. He visibly gapes in wonder, but my Beast doesn't notice. As always, as forevermore, he has averted his eyes, unable to even look at himself. I tried to make him see, I swear I tried, but self-loathing has been burned into his mind both my madness and his absurd wish to look like every other man.

Turning him into any other man would only disfigure a rarity of nature.

 

The Captain obviously shares my point of view, his fingertips only grazing the soft skin, as if they didn't dare to touch anymore. On a whim, then, he slides downwards, grabs Armand's feet, and starts by kissing there, muttering words I can't quite hear, but that bloody sound like praise. My Shadow's eyes grow wide with astonishment, and he darts a timid look at his leg being worshipped by the soldier's hungry mouth.

His stare flies to me, then, as if the sight of me could help the world fall into place, but I'm just as puzzled as he is.

 

Treville slowly caresses, kisses and licks up the slender leg until he reaches Armand's hipbone, and though my Beast's half-hard shaft lies right under his chin, the soldier neglects it to assault the other foot, pouring endearments and heated strokes upwards along the untouched leg.

Armand remains confused most of the time, but as the Captain reaches his other hipbone, clearly praising the harsh lines of thinness my Moon despises, the wide eyes of embers blur a little, his warmed-up thighs squirming in delight. Emboldened, Treville attacks the sensitive sides, the slender chest, mumbling his awe even for those hollow rib lines Armand never could bear to look at. As the soldier nibbles above his hips, I hear him say something like “You're exactly the way I've been dreaming you, no more, no less”, and my Moon closes his eyes, _moaning_ like I've never heard him before.

 

For the first time, in between shivers of lust, a foreign worry comes sneaking its way into my heart.

I freeze, staring intently at Armand's face, struck down by the growing fear I might just have pushed a better man right into my lover's arms.

It's true, I never ask. I never worshipped him like that.  
I command, I take.  
  
I reward, _I punish._

 

I inspect every inch of his skin, my chest pounding in terror, the Earth crumbling below my feet, could I lose him now he knows something else than me exists?

 

Will he still chose me, _after Jean?_

 

It takes, I swear, a world of willpower not to break Treville in two and throw him out of the house, but as the soldier's mouth settles back around his neck my dear Armand's eyes open and search for mine, _God, yes._

Even through a blur of pleasure, my Moon notices my concern, because this clever beast has never missed anything about me, and his face instantly softens. He releases his desperate hold of Treville's arm to extend his hand towards me, not beckoning, no.

Rather _pointing._

 

“ _It's you”_ he tells me, _“it will always be you,”,_ and a mighty wave of pulsing warmth washes over me. I cry out in bliss, my whole vision whitening for a while, and he lets out a high-pitched, genuine moan in echo.

Again, Treville, oblivious to our silent speech, takes it all as encouragement, and shifts himself between Armand's legs. He licks a languid circle around his ear, and gently urges his thighs apart. My beast shudders, lifting up his hips, craving what the soldier promises him.

Treville turns his gaze towards me again, the same question on his wild, delirious face.

I take time to sip on my wine, just for the thrill to make him wait, watching him panting and trembling above Armand, his cock dripping fluid upon the sheets.

 

I look in his eyes, count to five, and only then I nod my approval.

 

He whines in thankfulness, and to my utter shock, he instantly spits into his hand.

 _Wait, he doesn't intend to..?_  
How crude.

 

I snap my fingers at him, making him jolt and turn back to me.

-”Treville for God's sake” I scold, “you're in my house, not in a siege barrack.”

 

I glance at Armand. He's breathing fast, still high with want, but he's definitely amused. He reassures the soldier with a soft kiss on his lips, then opens the drawer of my nightstand to pull out a vial of almond oil.

He gently takes the Captain's hand, wipes the spit on the sheets and replaces it by the clear, scented oil.

 

While he's so tenderly corrected, Treville gives me an apologetic bite of his lips, and I smile leniently as I sit back in my chair.

  
_Now that's better._  
  
My lover is the Cardinal Generalissime, First Minister of France, and he's not to be fucked like any war camp whore.  
  
How wicked, how sinful he is, yet, as he sinks back into the bed, licking his swollen lips like no courtesan would dare, and shifts one knee up, the other down, being shamelessly clear about what he wants. The soldier grunts in thirst and looms over him, his dry hand tangling into the silver hair while the slick one passes between his thighs.

Treville slips two fingers deep, stretching Armand in a rough thrust, making him tense in bliss. The soldiers starts to move in and out, and despite fifteen years of solitude he's very quick to remember, because after mere seconds my Beast is crying out louder, waving his spine in search for a touch of his spot inside, _God, those hips of his, I've never seen them from that angle._

I feast on the sight of Armand's firm ass tensing with every thrust, adjusting fast to the harsh pleasure given to him, and the sounds of his moans make me lose my mind. Without thinking I throw one of my own legs over the armrest and press a hand against my groin over the folds of my shirt and dressing gown. I don't even have to grab my cock, the soft fabric is quite enough of a pressure, I only need to move my hips slowly, and fire swiftly spirals up in my guts.

 

The soldier quickens his pace, adding a third with maddening ease, visibly fighting not to rub against Armand's thigh and finish too soon. My Beast lets out keen cries, none of them truly prepared, but only when his gaze finds mine and he sees my own pleasure they get desperate, rising to frenzy, begging for more.

Our rhythm match, my Shadow and I, in the jolts of our hips, and though it's him, not me, being worked open by calloused fingers, at some point it's my voice that croaks in the heated room.

 

-”Inside, Jean.” I growl, definite. “ _Now_.”

 

Treville, completely lost in a haze, glances at me, has full-bodied start, and groans in shocked lust.

Well.

Maybe I'm quite a sight, legs spread, one hand gripping my glass, the other pressed between my thighs, the bulge under my shirt leaving no doubt about how _pleased_ I am.

 

On fire, the Captain obeys, slipping his fingers out and angling himself. He looks so aroused he can barely breathe, so Armand, always compassionate, lifts his hands around the soldier's face to calm him down a little. Then, slowly, the wicked beast places his own leg over the Captain's collarbone and gives the man a small push.

That's more than enough.

 

Treville sheathes himself in and Armand yelps, his breath cut in pieces.  
Indeed, by now _he feels the difference._

 

I have a perfect view of the soldier's forceful thrusts, and the way they send ripples of bliss through my Beast's pliant frame. Treville ravishes him just the way I like to, quick, relentless, violent, and my hands starts to grip the fabric of my dressing gown tight as I rub myself into it, _God, it's perfect,_ but something's missing.

 

Armand isn't loud enough. Armand isn't loud _at all._

Only the bed-frame thumps with each impact of the Captain against the lithe body. My Beast, though he's obviously frantic with pleasure, is biting his lips upon his cries, and I entirely believe my thoughtful lunatic to be able to refrain his highest moans just to save them for me alone.

 _No._  
  
This pleasure is my design and those cries will be mine, no matter who lies between your legs.

 

_Give them to me._

 

 

I take a gulp of the white wine, just to steady my voice, because I'm much closer than I'd wish.

-”Is he good, Armand?” I crow, drawing his blurred stare to me.

 

Treville doesn't stop, but he misses a few beats. His head turns my way, but his stare empty, barely seeing, made glassy and stunned by the heights of his pleasure.

My Moon unlocks his lips free and in a strangled moan, then, he says _“yes”_.

I see the soldier spasm to the raw eroticism of that simple word.

 

-”Let go, then.” I demand. “Show him. Show _us_.”

 

He frowns, I think, but as Treville grabs the covers next to his head for support and start thrusting hard again, he obeys me and _cries out._ He cries out, delicate but fierce, hips arching up, and I barely need to watch, I could just close my eyes, and it would be enough.

But I still stare, my fist clenched so tight in the waves of fabric around my cock I fear I might never open it again, bucking up to the rhythm of Armand's moans, _yes, my Moon, yes, scream for me._

I'm not sure I see clear anymore, but I know that as he's pounded mercilessly, pushed further into bliss, he looks at me and me alone, and as he reaches out for me again, not beckoning, rather _pointing_ , I definitely lose control.

 

“ _It's you”,_ he says, and my hips jerk up violently once or twice before I come, hard, gasping his name, my stare holding on his.

He lets out a few high-pitched cries, driven mad by the sight of my orgasm, and by the inescapable laws of human skin, his arousal passes straight into Treville's body.

I think something just shattered on the floor on my left, my glass of wine, I suppose, I cannot care.

The Captain's thrusts become savage, and dear Armand in his own blissful fever takes them admirably for a while, but sooner or later it had to happen. It always does.  
He wishes, I think, he could stand such ardor until the end, but his body, his nerves are so sensitive.  
  
As I still shiver in aftershocks, I notice my Beast wincing in rising pain, his slender hands searching for a way to make Treville show mercy, but the soldier is lost to the world, grunting in ecstasy, insane with hunger.

He's breaking Armand in two, and he doesn't even know.

 

-”Jean, slow down.” I call, but I'm barely in control of my own voice.

 

I take a deep breath, willing myself out of my pleasured fever, and wait for the Captain to understand, but meanwhile, Armand's cries have split, the pain in them turning into agony, and when I see a fickle tear dripping on the corner of his eyes I decide I'll wait no more.

I jump out of the armchair, get onto the bed, grab Treville under the chin and force him to look at me.

-”I said _slow down_.” I hiss at his stunned face, and he freezes at once.

 

I watch delirium fade in the clear blue eyes, and the soldier glances down at Armand. He too notices the tears upon the hollow cheeks and whimpers in deep shame, moving to pull out, _oh no you don't._

I know my Beast. If the whole thing ceases because of him, he won't live with himself for days. I have a gauging look for the lithe frame. He's still squirming a little, but he's delighted I have come closer it seems, pain already receding on his face, vanquished by invitation, and curiosity.

_Very good._

 

I tighten my grip on Treville's face, then, press myself against him and breathe into his ear:

-”Don't you dare stop now. He's fine. He's just _sensitive_.”

 

I slowly realize a good part of the soldier’s naked back is glued against my chest, and I feel him breathing harshly against me, slick with sweat, burning with need. I like the touch of him, rugged and mighty, like a stallion you can only ride because he allows you to.

So I chose to remain as I am, my hand slipping from his jaw to his lower back, and keep whispering against his temple:

-”Move slow. Forget yourself, focus on him.”

 

They both shiver in rapture. Treville because he seems to relish in my control much more than he thought, and Armand because it means I’m not going back to the armchair, so he can grab my wrist tight as the Musketeer starts calmly sliding in.

Again, his whole skin responds to the softer thrust with violent spasms, and after a few moves, the soldier angles himself right, and my shadow wails, eyes closed, tensing so hard he could snap.

My own skin, made responsive by my climax, feels every jolt of their bodies, and like it or not, at some point I fear I’m moaning too, the discovery too intense even for me.

-“Very good, Jean.” I heave against the soldier's cheek, and he whines in delight.

 

Lightheaded with pleasure, Armand pulls my hand to his mouth, and his skilful tongue starts to draw circles around my thumb. Enthralled, I push it into his mouth, making him suck it, _and God, he does, like the wicked snake he is._

The Captain under my grasp keeps doing exactly what he’s told, and soon enough my Beast’s tongue becomes erratic, a bit of teeth grazing my finger. He won’t need much more, just a little push.

So I shift my hand from his mouth to his throat, the way I often do, and hold him firm. Not enough to hurt, just enough to show I'm here.  
  
I'm his Master. I am his King.  
He starts trembling. _He won’t be long._

 

I grant myself the pleasure of cupping the soldier’s muscular ass, enjoying his groan as I give it a squeeze. I keep murmuring endearing words in his ear, not that he needs them that much, but it drives him mad, and it amuses me.

He gives Armand two more vicious thrusts, and I feel my shadow fall at last, his slender thighs clenching, _yes, that’s it._

-“Crush him.” I wheeze in Treville’s ear, then, and as my dear Beast throws his head back and screams, my admirable Captain, just like me, takes the few rougher thrusts he needs to follow.

 

I gorge on every sound, every twitch of their orgasm, I touch all the shuddering skin I like. I appease Armand with a few caresses in is hair, I praise Treville with a lazy scratch up his back. It lasts for quite some time, their cries lingering beneath the blue canopy of my bed, and I rejoice in the pleasure I devised for the three of us.

My plan, it seems, has worked amazingly after all.

 

Their shivers eventually cease, and the soldier doesn’t stay. He pulls out quite quick and crumbles on the other side of the bed, gasping for air like a drowning man.

 

My dear Moon quickly begs for my attention then, anxious to know if he’s been good enough. I kiss his worries mute, long and deep, with an urgency I don’t understand until he brushes his thigh between my legs and I cry out, _God, I’m hard again._

 

What can I say. They’re both _absolutely gorgeous.  
Didn't I wish for distraction? _

 

Armand drops a glance down on me, and smiles smugly. He doesn’t seem strong enough to make a move, and I have no intention to insist. He’s been magnificent as it is.

I even start to move away, crossing the lapels of my dressing gown over my chest, but a steady hand claps around my arm before I do.

Treville is sitting in front of me as I have seen him on battlefields, worn-out, tattered, but still ravenous for war. I wondered if a duel with this man would end easily for me. Well, as he twists his grip on my arm and forces me down until I’m lying flat in Armand’s arms, I think I know for sure.

-“ _Soldier_ …” I hiss, threatening, but my lover behind me gently sighs, wrapping his arms around my chest, and the warmth of him is like coming home at last.

 

So I don’t protest as much when Treville lowers himself with a mischievous shimmer in his eyes and slides his robust hands along my thighs.

I see them exchange a conniving look, and I feel for a second like a prey trapped between two devils. It’s my turn, then, to jolt in panic, but the Captain offers a handsome smile, bowing low in front of me, crawling close between my legs, _oh God._

-“Your Majesty.” He sneers, and I feel his hot breath on the wet tip of my cock before he swallows it whole.

 

-“Jean!” I yell, twitching furiously, terrified to be overpowered, and yet already lost in pleasure.

The Captain bobs his head, willing, zealous, and though it’s his mouth pleasuring me, it’s in Armand’s arms I cry out. I let my head fall backwards on my Moon's shoulder and moan into his hair, my hands reaching out for Treville’s hair.

The soldier welcomes my grip with a low hum that resonates deep into my guts, _yes, more._

As if it wasn’t enough, the impish creature I’ve been foolish enough to love starts spilling modulated moans into my ear once more, and those, I’m sure, are entirely made of _scheme._

It doesn't matter, they destroy me all the same, and my good, admirable soldier of France has no time to exhaust himself. In mere minutes I’m dead and gone, screaming high, spending myself into his welcoming mouth in a few brutal spasms.

The Captain swallows it all without even a flinch, and lets go of me with a faint slick noise.

He looks up at me then, _licking_ white semen off his lips, and forces a pathetic whimper out of my dry throat.

 

The next hour passes in a blur. I realize, by this, how tired, how _drunk_ I bloody am.  
Treville collapses on my side, his head upon my stomach, and falls asleep like a stone, I think.

Armand, of course, is something else entirely. He slips away from my weight and lies down next to me, asks for another kiss, then clicks back into his natural routine with amazing ease, getting up, fetching a cloth, cleaning us both, discarding my soiled clothes and serving me wine.

The regular one of course. _Not a chance for more Jurançon._

 

After that, he fetches a clean shirt for me, and pulls the covers over the three of us, careful not to wake up the soldier.

When he’s satisfied with the order of the universe, he lets out a relieved sigh, and cuddles close to me under the black rabbit fur. I sink into the warmth of him, muttering unstitched words, some of them embarrassing, but he doesn't respond.

His eyes are for Treville, sound asleep on the other side of me, and I frown at the seriousness of his face.

-“Are you mad at me Armand?” I mumble, soft, sheepish, definitely ruined.

 

He looks down at me, and to my delighted surprise he laughs, the sound of it so pure I close my eyes in joy.

-“No.” He breathes, nuzzling gently into my hair. “I never could truly hate him anyways.”

 

 

***

 

 

 

To Achilles and Nero's utmost pleasure, we stayed for five days, until Armand practically begged me to let him return to Paris and do those things he scribbled on his list.

 

Five days of carelessness, five days of footsteps in the snow.

Five days of long hunts and simple meals, Treville and me riding deep into the woods to find the last remaining fox, the last lingering deer, and if we came back empty-handed most of the time, well, it didn't even matter.

Because Armand was waiting for us in the warm, cosy bedroom of Versailles, buried in his work with my dressing gown on his shoulders, and by means of eager negotiations, he often consented to let us both with him into the bed.

Five days of his soft moans, five days of heated skin.

Five days of shameless pleasures and knowing looks.

 

Treville's first days as a free man.

 

 

On the very last hour, just before my dear Armand stepped into my carriage, I witnessed a curious scene, where he offered a refined handkerchief of blue silk to Treville, and the soldier as he accepted it, looked like he had tears in his bright eyes.

 

Much later I learned Armand he had told the Captain to wear this at his belt at Court whenever he felt lonely, so he wouldn't have to speak or even look to send a message, and my Beast would know how to arrange a meeting for the three of us.

 

 

I wished, for a vibrant second, for a France where I could lift just as easily the life-long burden of some of our greatest men.

 


End file.
